


Watchdogs

by Glory1863



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Character Study, Episode: s01e06 Terra Nova, Episode: s04e88 Babel One, Gen, Zindi arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glory1863/pseuds/Glory1863
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos couldn’t understand why Uncle Trip said Malcolm Reed was a hard person to get to know.  All you had to do was watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watchdogs

**Author's Note:**

> The episodes mentioned are not in broadcast order, but I feel they work better for the story this way.

I strain on my leash and try to get Dad to move faster.  Like most beagles, I’m intelligent (if I do say so myself), curious and friendly.  I want to check out every inch of my new home here on _Enterprise_ and acquaint myself with the scents of all the members of the new, large pack to which I belong, the pack of which Dad is the alpha male.

I notice a human coming down the corridor toward us.  He has a scent I don’t recognize, one that reminds me of running on a sandy beach by the ocean just after a storm, so I bark and wag my tail in greeting.  _“Hello, Human.  My name is Porthos.  I’m a beagle.  What’s your name?”_  

The unknown human stops abruptly, and his scent changes slightly to indicate nervousness.  “Good evening, Captain.”  The human’s voice is interesting:  Soft but clipped and unlike any other voice I’ve heard so far on my tour of the ship.  _I wonder why he’s afraid of me?  No one else has been; in fact, everyone else has seemed anxious to pet me except for Spicy Lady Erect Ears, but she’s not a human, and I’ve heard rumors that she doesn’t like my scent.”_

“Good evening, Lieutenant.  Have you met Porthos?” 

I bark again at the mention of my name just so everyone knows I’m paying attention. 

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite.”

I wag my tail in confirmation that I’m harmless then sit back on my haunches and favor the Lieutenant with my friendliest look.

“May I pet him, sir?”

“I think he’d like that, Malcolm.”

The human squats gracefully, and I feel strong paws move gently but firmly over my coat, scratch behind my ears and knead the muscles of my neck.  _Oh yes!  That feels so good.  Don’t stop!_

I’m not so distracted, however, that I don’t assess the human.  _So this is the one Dad says is the watchdog.  He doesn’t seem very big - more like a miniature or even a toy than a standard.  You’d think Dad would have chosen someone more intimidating, more like a Doberman, or a Rottweiler, or a pit bull or at least a German shepherd.  But maybe he’ll get bigger if Chow Hound puts out more bowls of food for him and gives him treats._

The next time I see the human I’ve named Watchdog is in the exercise yard.  Dad is riding in the little boat with no water and I’m wandering about as far as the long leash I’m on will allow.  I’m bored!  I want to run and play.  The door opens and in walks Watchdog dressed in a tank top shirt and gym shorts that make him look even less intimidating than he does in uniform.  Still, maybe he wants to play, so I bark in friendly greeting, _“Hello, Watchdog.”_

“Good evening, sir,” Watchdog says to Dad first which is only right since Dad is leader of the pack.

“Hi, Malcolm.”

Watchdog is about to get on the walk but don’t go anywhere machine when he notices my sad-eyed look.  “I was wondering, sir,” Watchdog begins.

“You don’t have to ask permission to pet him, Malcolm.”

“It isn’t that, sir.  I thought perhaps he would like to run on the treadmill with me, but he’s your pet, sir, and I wouldn’t wish to interfere.”

“He does look bored, doesn’t he?”

 _“No kidding, Dad!  Say ‘yes’.  Please say ‘yes’!”_ I yip and end with a soft whine as I turn my best begging look toward Dad.

“I think he’d like that, Malcolm.  It’s very kind of you to offer. 

By the way, he may be my pet, but he thinks he’s the ship’s mascot, and he’ll play with anyone he likes.  I know better than to fight him on this.  Beagles are a stubborn breed you know.”

_Stubborn?  I’m not stubborn.  I’m just not overly submissive._

Watchdog frees me from my leash and I go running about while he gets on the walk but don’t go anywhere machine and sets it to his liking.  “Porthos, come!” Watchdog says in a voice still soft but clearly commanding.  I stop chasing my tail and look at Dad.

“Go on, boy.  Malcolm wants to take you for a walk.”

I trot over to the walk but don’t go anywhere machine.  “Porthos, up!” Watchdog says in his command voice, so I jump on behind him and happily chase after him.  Watchdog makes the machine go faster and faster and changes it so it feels like we’re running up a bigger and bigger hill.  I’m getting tired and it’s hard for me not to fall off the back.  Finally, I’ve had enough and jump off, but Watchdog just keeps going.  He doesn’t seem very tired.  He may look underfed, but he has more stamina than I thought and can run very fast.  Maybe he’s part greyhound.

“Tucker to Archer.”  That’s Uncle Trip!  I look around but don’t see him anywhere.  I already hate the talking machine that plays tricks on you.  “I’m getting some peculiar readings from the warp core.  I’d like you to come down and take a look.”

Dad gets off the machine, goes to the talking box in the wall and pushes a button.  “I’ll be right there, Trip.  Archer out.” 

He heads for the door and I’m right at his heels.   “You stay here, Porthos.  I’ll be right back.”

“Would you mind?” Dad asks Watchdog.

“My pleasure, sir,” Watchdog answers.

I’m curious about Watchdog, and I don’t think he’ll hurt me, but I want to go see Uncle Trip and his territory, so I keep following Dad until I hear Watchdog say, in his command voice, “Porthos, stay!”  I remember all those weeks in dog obedience class, and while I try to make up my mind whether to obey or disobey and to determine whether Watchdog would punish me or not (Dad almost never does), I miss my chance.  Dad is out the door, and the door has closed.  Unfortunately, I haven’t figured out how to open it by myself yet and _Enterprise_ has no doggie doors.  I turn around and walk slowly back toward Watchdog.  I try to project an attitude of _you don’t order me around; I chose to stay._

Watchdog kneels down gracefully and again I feel his strong but gentle paws rubbing my coat.  “Good boy, Porthos.”  Watchdog looks at me intently, and I realize how strange his eyes are, how their color seems to change.  “Not bad, Porthos, not bad at all.  I know that little game you’re playing.  I know, because I’ve played it all my life.”  I shiver when I think he can read my mind. 

Watchdog rises and begins to do slow, elegant, stylized movements that require great balance, strength, coordination and concentration.  I’m content to merely lie down and watch.  I begin to realize just how wrong I was about him.  Watchdog may be small, but he's strong, patient and stealthy.  Perhaps he's part pointer as well.

When Watchdog finishes exercising, he reattaches the leash to my collar.  “Porthos, come!” he commands, and we go to the territory of the Chow Hound.  Watchdog takes a food in paw that has twice as much beef and cheddar cheese as usual and a small bowl of hot, dark, bitter water.  _Good, he needs to eat!_ The only problem is that I want some, too, especially the cheddar cheese.  Watchdog gets me a big bowl of nice, cold water.  In another bowl, he puts half of the beef and cheddar cheese from his food in paw and places it on the floor for me next to the bowl of water.  “Porthos, no more!” he says in his command voice.  _We’ll see about that!_   I gobble down my food as if Dad hasn’t fed me for a week.  I forget all about Watchdog needing to eat because he’s so small.  I want more of his cheddar cheese, so I turn on my best sad-eyed begging routine, the one even Spicy Lady Erect Ears sometimes falls for, but Watchdog ignores me.  I add a pitiful whine.  Watchdog finally looks at me.  “No means no, Porthos,” he says firmly but quietly.  _And Dad thinks beagles are stubborn?_

\---

Dad often brings me to the territory of the Chow Hound.  I look forward to it because sometimes, like today, Chow Hound will give me a treat. 

“Ah, Porthos, have you been a good little doggie?” Chow Hound asks.

I bark in the affirmative and nod my head just like Dad.  I want to make myself perfectly clear, although I know he really isn’t asking me but asking Dad, which is only right because Dad is the leader of the pack. 

“He’s been good, Chef,” Dad says with a smile, so Chow Hound gives me my treat, a nice big bone to gnaw on.  I **am** a good dog, and before I take the bone, I remember to bark my thanks and lick Chow Hound’s paw. 

I often see Watchdog in the territory of the Chow Hound.  He usually sits in the corner with his back to the wall where he can watch the entrance and see everything that’s going on.  The other humans think he’s busy with the little work box in his paws, and he is, but they don’t notice how often he raises just his eyes and checks the territory.  They never sit with him either.  If Watchdog were a beagle like me, then he’d be lonely.

Dad takes a bowl with a big brick of meat and smashed dug up root and goes and sits at a large table in the middle of Chow Hound’s territory.  _I wonder why he doesn’t sit with Watchdog?  Is Dad punishing him for what he did this morning?  If so, I don’t know why.  As watchdog, it is his place to ask for more power for the great claws of fire.  It is his right to stand his ground in such matters.  He was respectful in his approach to Dad and Uncle Trip, and when they both ultimately decreed that it wouldn’t be safe, he was appropriately submissive._  

I lay down under the table to enjoy my treat and to try to figure out this problem.  Pretty soon, Spicy Lady Erect Ears joins Dad with her bowl of leaves.  She never eats meat and never touches food with her paws.  Next, Uncle Trip joins us.  He has the same human chow as Dad plus a piece of sticky sweet nut treat.  Flower Lady Long Hair and Dark Coat Lead Dog join us, too.  Flower Lady Long Hair is very smart and understands and speaks the barks of many packs, even those of the Bad Smell Mangy Mutt Pack.  _Everything they say sounds like “bad dog.”_   Dark Coat Lead Dog is like a giant human puppy and always likes to play.  I can tell by his scent that he also likes Flower Lady Long Hair.  _I wonder if he knows that her scent says she likes him, too?_

I am beginning to feel nervous.  There are too many hind legs under the table that might accidentally kick me or step on my tail.  When Smiling Vet asks to join us, I decide it’s time to take my treat and go elsewhere.  Despite his smile, I don’t trust him.  Vets do things that hurt, and sometimes when one goes to see them, one never returns. 

When I come out from under the table, I see that Watchdog is still by himself, so I go over to him.  I stop a little ways away and bark softly, _“Hello, Watchdog.  May I join you?”_    I offer the part of the bone I haven’t gnawed on yet.  It’s the polite thing to do.  He looks up from the little work box and gives me a small smile. 

“Hello, Porthos.  Too much hurly-burly for you over there?”  He brings a paw down where I can sniff it and pats my head.  He smiles that small smile again.  He doesn’t take my treat.  I know that I’m welcome, and I realize that Watchdog has never been afraid of me.  He’s only nervous around Dad.  _Is that why Dad doesn’t sit with him - because he knows it would make him feel uncomfortable?  I hope so - better than being punished - but it’s unfortunate._ I think about how little Watchdog smiles.  Only when he works with the claws of fire does he seem really happy.  Perhaps he is part Bassett hound, but more likely he is simply lonely and sad.

\---

Dad has me on a short leash and is taking me to Watchdog’s kennel.  Dad is going to try to settle a dispute between the Wiggle Ear Pack and the Snarling Snout Pack.  Apparently, the Snarling Snouts think that I’m a treat.  _As far as I can tell, they don’t like much of anything else, but they think that I’d taste good to eat?  What did I ever do to them?  I’ve never even smelled them before!_ Dad says I’ll be safe with Watchdog, and I’m looking forward to exploring his kennel, that is, until I get there.

Even though Watchdog is appropriately submissive to Dad, I can tell by his scent that he’s angry.  Once the door is closed and Dad can’t hear, Watchdog complains to the air, “I’m chief of security, and there are two hostile, alien groups on this ship, but instead of protecting the ship, its officers and crew, I’m relegated to babysitting a dog.”

I decide it's best to be quiet and lie down in a corner as far from Watchdog as possible even though I’m pretty sure he’s mad at Dad and not at me.  While Watchdog sits on his bed and gives all his attention to a big pile of little work boxes, I look about his kennel.  There is nothing to chew on and no toys.  All hind paw protectors are put away in the closet which is closed.  There are no socks or underwear on the floor like at Uncle Trip’s.  There are no clothes on the chair.  Watchdog’s kennel is very clean and very bare.  There are no pictures of his home kennel or family pack.  _Doesn’t everyone have those?  Did Watchdog’s family pack drive him away?  Why would they do that?  He’s always appropriately submissive, very smart and works very hard.  Maybe they were show dogs and he’s the runt of the litter?  That must be it!  You have to be perfect to be a show dog; otherwise, you’re just a useless mouth to feed.  I used to wish that I was a show dog.  I thought it would be fun; but maybe not._ There are no pictures of a mate, either. 

Eventually, I slowly and quietly approach Watchdog.  He isn’t angry anymore; in fact, he doesn’t seem to notice me, but I know better.  After all, he **is** the watchdog.  I tentatively put my forepaws up on the bed and bark softly, _“Watchdog, I like you.  If I ever get my own pack, you can join.  I won’t drive you away.  A pack needs a good watchdog like you.”_

Watchdog is done with all the little work boxes.  He says, “Up, Porthos!” in his command voice, and after a couple tries I finally make the jump onto his bed.  I nuzzle against Watchdog, and he pets me.  I really like it when he scratches my belly, and I’m not afraid to assume that vulnerable position with him. 

After awhile, he stops petting me and says, “I’m sorry, Porthos, I haven’t been much of a host.”  After telling me, “Porthos, stay!” in his command voice, he gets off the bed, takes a sock out of his underwear drawer and ties a knot in it.  When he comes back, we play fetch and tug-of-war, and sometimes he even lets me win.  I’m yipping and barking and having a lot of fun.  I see Watchdog smile - not a small smile, not a half smile, but a real smile like when the great claws of fire tear something apart.  It’s so good to see Watchdog happy!

\---

I have finally figured out how to get out of Dad’s kennel when he’s not there.  If I stand up on my hind legs and jump high enough with my body stretched out, then the door’s little golden eye knows I’m there and that I want to go out.  _Who knew I’d need to do tricks just to go for a walk?_   I don’t like being by myself lately.  There's something about the territory we're passing through that makes my coat bristle.  I think it’s doing the same thing to the humans.  They're all growling and snapping and baring their teeth to each other as if they had the scared of water disease. 

Whenever Dad and Uncle Trip get together, which isn't often anymore, they talk about chasing a pack they call the Xindi that tried to take over Earth, the territory of the humans.  Apparently, they marked it as theirs, but not like I mark trees and fire hydrants as mine.  They must have done something much worse because it’s made Dad and Uncle Trip mean like junkyard dogs.  I don’t like to be around them when they talk about this pack.  They scare me.

I go into the exercise yard to see if anyone is there and if they’d like to play.  Watchdog is there, and he's hitting the big punching bag.  He does this often, but tonight I can tell by his scent that he's really angry.  I think I know why.  Dad doesn’t listen when Watchdog suggests ways to protect our pack.  He demands respect as alpha male, but he doesn’t show Watchdog the respect his place in our pack deserves.  Now that we’re chasing this Xindi pack (whatever they are), he's brought Growler and his small pack aboard.  They’re not friendly, they don’t respect Watchdog either, and Growler is trying to usurp Watchdog’s place in the hierarchy of our pack.

Even worse, I thought Watchdog had finally found a human friend in Uncle Trip, but today I found out I was wrong.  In the middle of the run, in front of everyone, Uncle Trip yelled at Watchdog like an angry master and threatened to hit him.  He used all the power of his place in our pack to make Watchdog cower and submit.  _Did he notice Watchdog’s eyes?  Did he see the confusion, the pain and the loneliness before Watchdog raised the fence you can’t see through that he has inside?_

I bark a friendly greeting, _“Hello, Watchdog.  Can we go run on the walk but don’t go anywhere machine again, please?”_   Watchdog pays no attention to me.  He just keeps hitting the punching bag, so I go run about for awhile by myself and chase my tail.  Pretty soon, a new scent gets my attention and I stop.  I think beagles are born knowing this scent, even if they don’t smell it often.  Blood!  I run back to Watchdog.  This time, I notice that he is not wearing the big paw protectors.  He hasn’t even taped his paws.  I see blood on the punching bag and on his paws.  I bark loudly and frantically to get his attention, _“Watchdog, stop!  You’re hurting your paws!”_   He ignores me and keeps hitting the punching bag. 

Even though, as a beagle, I am of the hound class, I don’t howl much.  I’ve never really felt the need, but now I do.  I must get Watchdog’s attention and make him stop!  I sit back on my haunches, raise my snout in the air and let loose.  _“Watchdog, stop!  If you damage your paws so you can’t work, Dad will tell everyone you’re a bad dog.  He **will** give your place to Growler and drive you away.  Please, Watchdog, you’re my friend.  I don’t want that to happen!”_   Watchdog remains oblivious and keeps hitting the punching bag.

I’m pretty desperate now.  I notice that Watchdog is wearing long gray sweat pants instead of gym shorts.  If I’m careful, then I can bite the material and pull on it and not bite Watchdog.  I know he won’t like it - none of the humans do - but maybe it will get his attention, and I don’t know what else to do.  Our pack needs Watchdog (even if Dad and Uncle Trip no longer think so) _,_ and I know that Watchdog definitely needs our pack. 

I don’t normally growl either, but it’s only fair to give Watchdog warning, and so I do.  I make the growling noise deep in my throat and bare my teeth.  _“Watchdog, this is your last chance.  Please don’t make me do this!  I don’t want to hurt you.  Please stop!”_   It makes no impression on him.  _I guess it was pretty stupid to think that a brave, strong watchdog would be scared of a little pet beagle._

Now I don’t have a choice.  I launch myself at one of Watchdog’s hind legs, bite down on the baggy gray material by his hind paw and pull as hard as I can.  He tries to kick me loose, but my teeth hold on tight and I keep pulling and wiggling until eventually he falls.  Only then do I stop.

Watchdog seems stunned as if a bad master had hit him on the head with a board.  He looks at his paws as if he’s never seen them before.  He draws his hind legs up, puts his head down on them and begins to make tiny whimpering noises.  He lets one paw fall down by his side.   I slowly creep up to him with forelegs and head down and hind legs up and pushing me forward.  My tail droops.  The only way I could be less threatening and more submissive would be to lie on my back with my throat and belly unprotected.  I whine softly, _“I’m sorry, Watchdog, but for the good of our pack I had to stop you.”_   I begin to gently lick the blood off his paw.  If Watchdog had a mate, then she would do this for him, but he doesn’t, and I know that right now he thinks he has no one.

Flower Lady Long Hair comes in.  She sees Watchdog, she sees me, and she comes to the only conclusion she can.  She rushes over and hits me on my rear.  “Porthos, bad dog!” 

She is about to hit me again when Watchdog says in something like his command voice, “Hoshi, don’t, please!  Porthos didn’t bite me.  I was a tad - overenthusiastic - in my workout.  I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention and tripped over him.”

I’ve moved away and assumed my submissive posture again, except this time my rear is not up in the air.  _I’m presenting as small a target as possible.  If Watchdog wasn’t so upset, I bet he’d be proud of me._   I don’t think Flower Lady Long Hair believes Watchdog, and I’m not sure what she'll do next.  I’m relieved (sort of) when she tells Watchdog he needs to go see Smiling Vet.  Of course, Watchdog doesn’t want to go, but Flower Lady Long Hair is right, and she can be very persuasive, so he finally agrees.  I tag along, but don’t really want to go into Smiling Vet’s territory.  I’m glad Flower Lady Long Hair is with him.  Just before they go in, Watchdog tells me, in his command voice, “Porthos, go home!”

I know I barked, _“Yes, sir!”_ and I know Flower Lady Long Hair is with him, but I’m still worried about Watchdog, and I still don’t trust Smiling Vet, so I decide to sit quietly in the run outside Watchdog’s kennel until he comes home.  Perhaps it was a mistake, though, because when he comes home and sees me, he says, “Perhaps I should just resign and spare the captain the bother of having me officially relieved of duty.  No one has confidence in me or listens to me, not even the dog.”  Now it is my turn to make little whimpering noises.

“Malcolm, don’t be ridiculous!” Flower Lady Long Hair says.  “Porthos doesn’t like going to the vet any more than you like going to sickbay.  I’m sure he just wanted to make sure you were your usual ‘fine’ and that Phlox hadn’t put you down or something.”

 _“That’s right, Watchdog!  Please listen to her!  I’m going home now,”_ I say in quiet little yips.  I trot down the corridor toward Dad’s kennel, but I turn around once before Watchdog has gone into his.  I bark a little louder, _“See, Watchdog, I’m going now that I know you’re fine.”_  

\---

 Dad and Uncle Trip are very angry.  Dad has just come back from a planet that has humans on it.  _Supposedly they’re humans, but they look more like the Clay People from that very old ‘Flash Gordon’ vid Uncle Trip likes to watch.  I can’t believe humans thought that was how it would be in space.  It’s like a cartoon._ They weren’t very friendly; in fact, they hurt Watchdog and dognapped him.  They won’t give him back unless Smiling Vet can help one of their pack who is sick. 

 Now I’m angry and scared, too.  How badly did they hurt Watchdog’s hind leg and why?  Watchdog isn’t aggressive unless our pack is threatened.  What are they doing to him?  Are they making him wear a choke chain and poking him with the sticks of hidden fire?  Did they put him in the pound?  Will they give him water and something to eat?  What if Smiling Vet can’t help the sick member of their pack and has to put her to sleep?  Will they put Watchdog down, too?  I can’t stay still in my dog bed.  I have to pace around Dad’s kennel.  When I can’t stand it anymore, I begin to howl.

Eventually, Dad comes back and tells me to be quiet.  Smiling Vet cured the member of the Terra Novan pack (that’s the name the Clay People/human pack answer to), and they’ve returned Watchdog.  Now that I’m not causing a ruckus, Dad is going to go down to Smiling Vet’s territory to check on Watchdog.  He seems to think I’ll stay in our kennel.  _Boy, does he think wrong!_ I’m out the door and racing for Smiling Vet’s territory like I had the warp 7 engine Uncle Trip is always talking about. 

Unfortunately, once I get there, I have to wait for Dad to catch up.  I’m too anxious to be able to do the trick to get the attention of the door’s little golden eye, so I scratch at the door with my claws, whimper and whine.  I want to see Watchdog! 

Dad picks me up, and we go in.  Watchdog is lying on one of the beds.  He's very still.  I don’t smell the scent of death, but there are so many bad scents in Smiling Vet’s territory and I’m so scared that I can’t be sure.  Dad tries to hold on to me, but I wiggle and wiggle until I get loose and plop down onto Watchdog’s chest.  I can feel him breathing, feel his heartbeat, feel his warmth.  He’s alive!  Both Dad and Smiling Vet try to grab me, but I growl and snarl and stand my ground until I feel Watchdog’s paw on my coat.  Although his voice is weak, I know it's his command voice, “Porthos, be quiet!  I’m fine!”  I instantly obey, because he **is** the watchdog, but I don’t relax and nuzzle Watchdog until Dad and Smiling Vet back off a little.  I'm very careful not to lay down or step on Watchdog’s injured leg.

“Doctor, I believe Porthos is afraid you mean to put me down.”

“Lieutenant, please be assured I mean to do no such thing.  You do need to get some sleep, though, and I think it best if you stay in sickbay, at least overnight.”

I can tell by his scent that Watchdog isn't happy about this (just as I don’t like to stay at the vet’s without Dad).  This gives me an idea.  I look intently at Smiling Vet’s big blue eyes.  I can tell we've come to an understanding when he, in turn, looks intently at Dad and nods toward me.  I go back to nuzzling Watchdog and gently lick his face.  I can feel him begin to relax again.  He will be asleep soon, but before that happens Dad says, in his best command voice, “Porthos, stay and guard Malcolm.” 

I quietly bark, _“Yes, sir!  He’s not going anywhere.  I promise.”_

Still in his best command voice, Dad says, “Malcolm, stay!”

Watchdog chuckles softly.  “Aye, aye, sir!”  He closes his eyes and is almost immediately asleep.

\---

Smiling Vet has healed Watchdog’s hind leg, and he's back at work.  I have a little more trust in Smiling Vet now, although I still don’t like to go into his territory.  I’m back in my dog bed in Dad’s kennel.  He and Uncle Trip are talking and drinking tiny bowls of the blue water that makes you act strange that the leader of the Wiggle Ear pack gave Dad.  Once again, Uncle Trip is whining (well, that’s what it sounds like to me) about how hard it is to get to know Malcolm Reed.  I just don’t understand it.  All you have to do is watch!


End file.
